All at Sea (To Walk the Path 5)

by Paul Smith

  *

  “I can't believe we're finally down to a matter of days...”

  Galairel regarded Rivan with sombre eyes. “It does seem strange, I'll grant. All that time spent planning...”

  “'All that time'…?!” Rivan grinned, dodging the well aimed swipe the Wraethi launched at him. “A drop in the ocean surely?”

  Galairel shrugged. “As you get older you'll come to realise that time is subjective. The dead years I spent wondering the frozen wastes barely register, for example. Where as this last year with you, planning all of this, stands clear in my mind.”

  “Yes but all that's just happened.”

  “Proximity does play a part, it's true, but still…” the Efljos turned those constellation eyes out to sea once more “...passion plays an important part, and I have not been so passionate about something for many years.”

  Rivan grinned. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

  Lair scowled at him, but it was a scowl dusted liberally with love. “Impudent boy.”

  “And that's why you keep me around.” Rivan squeezed his lover's shoulder, smiling fondly at the immortal that shared his bed. “So what of these other times? When else have you felt impassioned…?”

  Galairel raised an eyebrow, glancing up at the ring. “Well… before this all started there was a span of years I spent farming out on the plains land of your fair island.”

  “You, a farmer?!” Rivan laughed. “But what about the...” and he waved at the sky.

  “The land can be tended just as well at night,” Galairel shot back, a little archly perhaps. “And some crops, like Bliss, can only be harvested in the dark. It's the only time the flowers open.”

  Rivan raised an eyebrow. “I did not know that.” He grinned at the Wraethi's self satisfied smirk. “Any others?”

  “The Howling Maw sheltered me for a while.” Galairel shook his head, obviously sensing the protests piling up suddenly behind Rivan's lips. “Baelmont was not always as he is now. Kospiar was once a place of pilgrimage whose gates stood open to all who would brave the mountain trail.” Galairel shook his head sadly. “The Revolt ruined so much, like any action born of hatred.”

  Rivan nodded sombrely. “I suppose that time would be another?”

  Galairel sighed. “Sadly, yes. The fall of the Night City was a terrible tragedy that should never have been allowed to happen. But tempers spiralled out of control. You know how it is…”

  Rivan smiled grimly. “I've seen my share of bar fights.”

  “Precisely! Words were said. Claims that could not be backed down from without lose of face...” the Wraethi shook his head, a wondering smile touching his lips. “I was still a recluse at that point, my presence not officially acknowledged by the governing powers, though there were rumours I believe. Certainly the Maw knew of my whereabouts.”

  “Yes, what happened there? I've seen the… conclusion, beneath the city ruins. But...”

  The Efljos shook his head, suddenly looking like he carried at least a portion of the years he'd lived. “That is… I haven't spoken of that night to anyone in...”

  Rivan offered a hopeful smile. “You don't have to, I just thought...”

  The Wraethi turned, squeezing both his arms. “You are right, it is something we should speak of. You deserve to know. And what better time than now, on the eve of the revolution that will bring us full circle?” He glanced about. “But for this we need the appropriate props. So: drink, something to smoke, an audience…” Rivan laughed “...Naria!”

  The elderly trader came hobbling across the deck, one eyebrow raised in polite question. “You boys cooking up mischief?”

  Rivan grinned at the contrition that flitted across the Efljos' face: the elderly trader, and her partner in crime Lyse Soltais, were the only people who seemed able to cow the Wraethi without any apparent effort. A fact that Rivan suspected hinted at a strong maternal influence in Lair's past.

  “Our fearless leader wishes to enlighten us as to why we're all here,” Rivan supplied, at the woman's enquiring look.

  Coombe Naria's brow ascended even further towards her salt and pepper hair line. “Story time, is it? Well… in that case...” And she turned, hollering orders at the top of her lungs.

  Barely minutes later, chairs had been assembled for Rivan and Galairel, plus a couple for the elderly Captain and their former spy master (Lyse hated being dragged away from her maps, but...). The rest of the crew not on duty (and any who were and could get away with it) gathered nearby as Edarn approached with a ships lantern to set atop the barrel between the two of them. He winked at Rivan, who grinned back, trading a quick clasp of wrists with the recently made bosun. Theirs was a slow reconciliation, but the waters between them seemed to be calming once again. Part of this at least stemmed from the sailor's acceptance of the Efljos as an individual. The two had met the first time they came aboard ship in Mestrarl, and after some initial awkwardness they'd progressed to the point of exchanging pleasantries. It had been on the third night out that Edarn had sought Rivan out, with a bottle of whisky and a pair of pipes. He smelt Naria's hand in the matter, but found he couldn't be angry with her for meddling. It was too much of a relief to have the young ship's hand back as a friend.

  Finally the stage was set, with everyone gathered in attentive silence.

  “Well, this isn't quite what I had in mind...” Lair hedged.

  “Oh do stop prevaricating and get on with it,” Naria suggested. “Some of us are getting old here.”

  “Dear lady, you do realise who you're talking to?”

  “Aye, and I don't count those who've been frozen in time. You aren't old until you've experienced arthritis on a cold winter's morn.”

  Galairel grinned through the ensuing laughter, glancing at Rivan who shrugged. “She's got you on that one old man.”

  “Of course I do. Now, enough with the mysterious silence and tell us what happened the night your city fell.”

  “It's hardly my city...”

  “Don't make me come over there...” Naria made to rise from her deck chair, to gasps and giggles from the assembled.

  “Ok, ok!” Galairel held up clawed palms, nodded thanks as Rivan handed him a gently smoking pipe. “Let's see. The Sack of Galairel, or How to step out of time.” He sat back, thinking for a moment, eyes doing far away.

  “It was just after sunset that the ships came...”